


The Magnificent Cincos

by Misforgotten



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Jackson is the worst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misforgotten/pseuds/Misforgotten
Summary: At least the Gyarados appears to be enjoying itself.
The massive serpentine beast is a giant of its kind and looks positively gleeful as it chases groups of screaming children, takes the head off a life size plastic Kangaskhan with its Bite attack, uses Dragonbreath to set fire to a topiary Venusaur, and sends an ice cream cart soaring into the air with Twister.
Stiles gives a low whistle, says, “Damn, Nemo’s got some style.”
“Jesus,” the Sheriff says unclipping the Pokéball from his belt and expanding it to full size.  “What is that thing even doing here?”
“King Karp, California’s biggest Magikarp,” Stiles explains pointing at the murky pond surrounded by sad plastic plants and giant cartoon fish with holes cut out for people to stick their heads through during souvenir photos.  “Kids are always poking him with their clubs trying to get him to do something other than just splash around.  Looks like it worked.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. None of my original TW NaNoWriMo ideas survived the one chapter test, but this bit of weirdness just flowed right on out.
> 
> There are some terms used that are my own bastardization that I can't explain just yet because they have plot relevance.
> 
> As for where this thing is going...your guess is as good as mine.
> 
> Enjoy.

The problem with having a Class Five Pokémon for a companion is that opportunities for battling someone in the same weight class are majorly thin on the ground in a town the size of Beacon Hills.  In fact most of the practice he and Gengar have gotten over the last six years has been against his dad’s Arcanine whenever Superdog was dispatched to drag him back home from one his unsanctioned adventures with Scott.  So when a call about a rogue Gyarados comes in during his weekly dinner/catchup session down at the station, he’s up and halfway out the door before a sharp jerk on the back of his hoodie draws him up short.

“Oh no you don’t,” the Sheriff says hauling him back inside his office.  “You are staying _right here_ , understand?”

“Dad, come _on_ ,” Stiles pleads.  “That’s a Class Five Water Type.  Your guys all have _Growlithes_.  They’re going to end up in traction.”

_Or worse_ , but that’s the kind of thing you don’t say out loud when the Red Shirts in question are within earshot lest it turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Sirius and I can handle it,” the Sheriff insists.  “He’s Superdog, remember?”

“Well yeah you’re going to _win_ ,” Stiles replies with absolute confidence in his dad’s badassery.  “But not without Sirius getting the kibble knocked out him first.  I _just_ taught Cheshire how to use Thunderbolt _last week_.  This is like, Fate, Destiny, Kismet, Karma, Synchronicity; the Universe unfolding the Secret Mysteries of the Grand Design, the…”

“Alright!” the Sheriff says throwing up his hands in surrender.  “Ease off with the Chinese Thesaurus Torture.  You can come.  But I want you to stay behind me and no showing off.  The second you get a chance, you throw a Pokéball and catch this thing.”

If Stiles had a tail it his whole body would waggling side to side with excitement.  “Seriously?  Oh man that would be awesome!”  Gyarados aren’t exactly rare, but they seldom leave the open ocean, and taking one on in its natural habitat is just this side of suicidal.  His feet hardly touch the ground as he scampers out to the cruiser and throws himself in the passenger seat.  “ _Two_ Class Fives!  This will push my standing up like, a million points!”

“You’re licensed now,” the Sheriff says like it’s no big deal.  “Besides, I want to see you crush the Whittemore kid in the finals next summer.”

“Cross my heart.”

As often as he and his dad butt heads, one thing they’ve always had in common is an undying hatred for people who exploit Pokémon for money or worse, simple vanity.  The Whittemores are ultra-rich, super connected, and had no compunction about throwing their weight around until they got the necessary permits to _buy_ a team of fully trained thoroughbred Pokémon for Jackson after his license was reluctantly signed off on by Doctor Deaton.  The ass was given a freaking _Charmander_ for crying out loud, but he treats the unlucky creature as a trophy instead of friend. 

Stiles could rant about the unfairness of it all for hours even if he somehow forgot to segue onto his second favorite topic: Lydia Martin.  And yet the scene that awaits them at Poké-Putt Mini Golf is enough to strike even him completely speechless.

The place usually does a brisk business on Friday evenings and tonight, unfortunately, is no exception.  Dozens of children, their parents, a double handful of highschoolers, and assorted employees are running around the burning remains of the establishment, too far gone on sheer animal terror to realize they could get away easily they ran in a straight line instead of juking off in a new direction with every flash of lightning and clap of thunder from the localized storm churning low in the sky overhead.

At least the Gyarados appears to be enjoying itself.

The massive serpentine beast is a giant of its kind and looks positively gleeful as it chases groups of screaming children, takes the head off a life size plastic Kangaskhan with its Bite attack, uses Dragonbreath to set fire to a topiary Venusaur, and sends an ice cream cart soaring into the air with Twister.

Stiles gives a low whistle, says, “Damn, Nemo’s got some style.”

“Jesus,” the Sheriff says unclipping the Pokéball from his belt and expanding it to full size.  “What is that thing even _doing_ here?”

“King Karp, California’s biggest Magikarp,” Stiles explains pointing at the murky pond surrounded by sad plastic plants and giant cartoon fish with holes cut out for people to stick their heads through during souvenir photos.  “Kids are always poking him with their clubs trying to get him to do something other than splash around.  Looks like it worked.”  Which is too bad, really.  He used to come here at least once a month as a kid, and feeding and petting KK was always a highlight of the trip.

“People should be required to get a license before reproducing, I swear,” his dad mutters with a rueful shake of the head.

The fish-like Pokémon is easily the weakest and most common variety on the planet.  In fact they’ve become in invasive pest in California.  As a result, the regulation regarding their capture and sale is practically non-existent, which is borderline _insane_ given what they sometimes evolve into.

Case in point.

“Have the Deputies cover the civilians,” Stiles suggests.  “You draw its fire and I’ll get behind it.”

“Which one of us is the Sheriff, again?” his drawls, signaling his Deputies to move in and tossing the Pokéball.  “Sirius, I choose you!”

Sensing the arrival of a worthy adversary the Gyarados abandons its random acts of destruction and makes a beeline for the Sheriff’s Arcanine.

“Good luck,” Stiles says before ducking into a shadowy area and calling out, “Cheshire!”  He’s always had a…special bond with his Gengar and rarely calls him back into his Pokéball, preferring to let the Ghost Pokémon follow him around invisible while committing minor acts of mayhem on those who deserve it.

Mostly.

 “How do you feel about a sneak attack?”

Cheshire’s already enormous toothy grin gets impossibly wider at the prospect.  “Gengar Gengar!” it laughs sinisterly.

“Yeah, yeah.  Go crazy.”

Contrary to what People for the Ethical Treatment of Pokémon (or PET-Peeves as Stiles calls them) would have everyone believe, all Pokémon enjoy battling.  It is simply part of their nature to test their strength against one another, and not just for dominance or mating or territory like a normal animal; though it is true some varieties get more into it than others.

His dad’s Arcanine, for instance, loves throwing down more than any Stiles has ever seen, and he can’t help but take a minute to watch fight going on below after scrambling up into position atop Diglett Ridge.

The rogue Gyarados has mass, power, and sheer unstoppable rage on its side, but Sirius was originally trained for Army K-9P service and has had a decade and a half of experience as Police Pokémon on top of that.  The Sheriff doesn’t even have to verbalize his attack calls the two of them are so in synch.  The legendary hound moves like smoke through gold course, using the terrain to his advantage as his opponent unleashes blast after blast of water, flame, and searing energy; retaliating with the star-shaped Fire Blast attack. 

The fight is a spectacular, if ultimate hopeless one.  Gyarados has superior defenses against special attacks to begin with, and with Sirius is fighting cross-type, his strikes are hardly doing more than singeing the beast’s scales, while even a love tap from his far larger opponent is enough to daze him briefly.

Stiles waits until the pair are in the perfect spot out in the open and away from bystanders and large metallic structures to signal the retreat with a piercing whistle.

Sirius instantly breaks off contact, collects the Sheriff, and makes for the parking lot at a speed that reduces him to an orange and black blur.

“Showtime,” Stiles says excitedly, calls out, “Cheshire!  Use Mean Look.”

The Gyarados whips around and tries to take his head off a Hyper Beam, but Stiles has already ducked down to safety.  More importantly, the rogue Pokémon is now looking past him at the stormy sky.

Sirius may enjoy the physicality of combat to exceptional degree, but when it comes to an addiction to showing off no other Pokémon can quite compete with Stiles’s Gengar.

The billowing black clouds overhead writhe and condense into a horrifying, twisted visage some three stories tall, with glowing red eyes and a vast, gaping mouth full of razor sharp fangs.  It is said that nothing can stop a Gyarados once it begins raging, but over the cacophonous renewed screaming coming from the now _transcendentally_ terrified disaster victims, Stiles can hear the startled, “Gyar?” as the Pokémon halts its attack momentarily to try and make sense of what it is seeing.

Which is all the opening they need.

“Now!  Thunderbolt!”

The Cloud-Gengar lets out a roar as streamers of black lighting rain down from its airs and wrap around the Gyarados like super eager electric boa constrictors.  For a moment it looks like it might break free and run, but Cheshire is one of the oldest and powerful of his kind and the Mean Look holds until, with one last mournful-yet-still-angry bellow, the Pokémon formerly known as king topples over like a badly charred redwood to land with a crash that shakes the earth.

“Boo yeah!” Stiles whoops.  “The eyes have it, baby!  Now that is what I call a Fish Tale!”  He half runs half falls down through the courses to take care of the last bit of business.  “Your name is Nemo now.”

The Gyarados forces and eye open and tries to give him an intimidating growl.

“Hey!” Stiles barks slapping upside the head.  “None of that.  I’m the boss of you, capisce?”

Cheshire reinforces the statement by reappearing at normal size, and gathering more crackles of black lightning onto his claws.

Nemo closes his eyes and ducks his head obediaently.

“Don’t worry, Big Guy,” Stiles says soothingly, rubbing an uninjured spot behind Nemo’s ear frills.  “Doctor Deaton will get you fixed right up.  In you go,” he says gently lobbing an empty Pokéball at his new friend.

Nemo lets out an exhausted sigh as his body dissolves into red light and vanishes into the portable containment device.

“Yeah, that’s never gonna not be weird.”

Seriously, the Laws of Physics are supposed to _matter_.

Luckily, the Sheriff rides up on Sirius before Stiles can get sucked into another black hole of cosmological woolgathering.

“As the Sheriff of this county I’m inclined to cite you for Disturbing the Peace, Reckless Endangerment, and about a half a dozen other things!” he takes a deep breath and adds in a calmer voice, “But as your father I have to say you are going to be one hell of a Trainer someday, Kid.  Your mom would be proud.”

“Gengar Gengar Gengar!” Cheshire agrees.

The rest of Beacon Hills has a somewhat different opinion of his actions.  The front page of the local newspaper the next morning is a shot Cheshire’s demonic cloud face underneath the headline: Son of Local Sheriff Terrorizes Families.

Not only does Stiles get a hell of clipping to start his scrapbook with, when all is said and done the libel suit will probably wind up financing his career as a trainer all by itself.

“What do you think, Nemo?” he asks holding up the Pokémon’s slightly smaller mugshot on page four.

The Gyarados rears up and roars scaring the crap out of a flock of birds, literally, then goes in for an affectionate head-butt that lays Stiles out flat.

“Love you too, Big Guy.”


End file.
